


Pitted Fruits

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cherry Stems!Verse, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, FBFA Fic, George!POV, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rimming, Weirdly Long Discussions of Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: The conclusion toCherry Stemswhere twenty-six year old virgin Ben finally gets his boyfriend to really fuck him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> FBFA! For Tumblr User foxnewsfuckfest who graciously donated for this fic! It rant about... 3.5x as long as a FBFA should supposedly go but... here we are. With dicks in butts. Also, this is dedicated to the messages in my inbox asking when the fuck is Ben going to get a dick up his ass.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t done anything like this before. Even after that first night at the movies, it was hardly the end of their more intimate encounters. And Benjamin - for all this flushing and ducking and waffling - was a quick study. He’s also nearly insatiable, George muses to himself as Benjamin drags his hand down the expanse of his chest. He hadn’t wanted to get up and shower after he’d spent the better part of the evening learning the finer points of dragging his tongue up the length of George’s cock and nuzzling into the base to make him shiver. Not that George blames him, lifestyle permitting he would lay in bed with Ben for the rest of his natural life, doing nothing but stroking the dip of his back and hissing in breaths whenever nimble fingers tugged gently at his nipples.

“Tease,” he rumbles, with no heat behind it. Ben tries to hide his smile but it presses against George's skin anyway. Followed, quickly, by a kiss to his shoulder. “We should get up,” he finds himself saying for the third time. But, just like the others, he makes no move to peel himself off the bed.

Really, he knows not only should they get up - but they should also shower, and perhaps George could find time to change the sweat, spit, and come soaked sheets. He knows they should, but Ben’s dainty, wandering, fingers turn to the slightest hint on nails against his pectoral. Dirty little cheat figured out that faint edge of a scratch was sure to stoke George’s embers weeks ago and has yet to forget.

He responds the best way he knows, by dragging his hand down his precious gifts back and fitting his palm right over his ass cheek and squeezing _just_ firm enough. Ben, as expected, squeaks into George’s shoulder.

Fuck if he wasn’t so tired he’d make good use of the cock pressing hard against his hip. But as it stands he already knows that if he even tries to roll over, his back is gonna throw a fit. And his knee - and for good measure and some sick sense of completionism, his shoulder’ll probably start acting out too.

Not that Ben seems to mind. He’s a smart kid, knows that George only has so much in his tank. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for the night.

“Still want to get up?” He asks, in that tone that’s both playful and nervous. Like he’s got something to say that he won't say, something to ask that’s making him twist up inside.

If this was three hours earlier, he would roll over, pin him down and suck bruises into his inner thighs to draw an answer out of him. Instead, he sighs and looks down at the man in his arms. His hair’s mussed, sticking up at odd angles, just a little too long. He’s been complaining about needing a haircut for weeks, and maybe George has been a little selfish, taking up as much of his weekend as he could to let him grow it out just a little longer.

He can’t help it if his boy looks so irresistible with thin blond strands falling in front of his eyes and tucked behind his ears.

His boy, Jesus. He sounds some some old fucking lech.

If he doesn’t get up to shower, he’s going to feel disgusting.

Legs shift, and Ben’s thigh peels off of George’s. Too late, he already feels disgusting.

“Post-coital cuddles can only last so long before I need to shower, Benjamin,” he finally settles on. He waits until Ben moves to get up, finally acquiescing, to settle his hands on his hips. They hadn’t yet - Ben’s always too self-conscious for the harsh lighting of the bathroom, or the bedroom, for that matter - but he figures it’s always good to offer: “Would you like to join me?”

His brow pulls, like he’s stumped for a moment by a question on an exam. Like he’s waiting for George to bow and tell him the right answer, light up the correct path that leads to George shampooing his hair and kissing his neck and worshiping every inch of that beautiful body that Ben can’t seem to appreciate the way he does.

Ben’s hand lifts off George’s chest and he already counts it as a no before he even says it.

“You go ahead,” Ben says, pulling the twisted coverlet up to his chest and darting his eyes away. Something in George’s chest curls a little tighter at the sight.

The bed creaks under his weight as he leans over, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to the side of his jaw. “I’ll be right back, then.”

George has never been one for long, indulgent showers, especially at night. It wastes time, resources, and what is the point of lingering there where there’s nothing to do but examine his own signs of aging? The silver in his chest hair, the weather of his hands, the pain in the left side of his hip. He doesn’t want to dwell on it because he knows it makes it harder to scoop Ben into his arms once he gets back to bed, so he scrubs himself down quickly and efficiently and towels off just the same. He’ll slip into some comfortable bottoms, change the sheets, and kiss his damn Benjamin goodnight and it’ll be fine.

By the time he’s done showering, towel wrapped around his waist, Ben’s dropping a pillow at the top of the bed. He wrings his hands together for a second, then stops. “I know you like clean sheets, so I figured… I knew where they were.”

“You changed the sheets?”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

 _You’re absolutely perfect,_ George wants to say. But he doesn’t, because that would be ridiculous. Instead he tells him, “That’s perfect, thank you, Benjamin.”

Ben shuffles his feet and ducks his head, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m… gonna go take a shower too. I’ll be right back.”

He darts off and George finishes a fair portion of the rest of his to-do. He changes into a pair of nearly threadbare pajama pants and settles in, wholly aware of the care Ben took to make sure all the corners are neatly folded down. He must’ve moved quickly, he thinks, or George just took longer than he thought. He’s reading by the light of his lamp, getting a few more pages through some Roosevelt biography that Lafayette had given him ages ago, when the shower cuts out and the bathroom door creeps open.

It’s learned habit, that if he looks directly up at Ben, he’ll startle - so he takes his time, reads until the end of the page and lets him change into whatever clothing of George’s he’s decided is comfortable enough to nick for the evening. A glance down, once a warm, slightly damp, weight finds its way to his side, confirms it’s a favorite of Benjamin’s - one of George’s two-and-a-half-decade-old shirts from William and Mary. Worn soft and thin and still too large, Ben practically swims in it but it does look damn good on him.

“Seven Worlds of Theodore Roosevelt?” Ben mumbles, cheek pressed against George’s shoulder.

“I’m working my way through the presidents,” he clarifies, carefully marking his place and setting it back down. “It’s not a particularly captivating read.”

A hum, and Ben noses his way to George’s collar, slotting effortlessly against him. George’s hand falls on instinct to the small of his back, wrapping around him. “What do you need?”

“Hm?”

George would have, given his history and previous relationships, assumed that by now, he’d be frustrated with this game. With Ben’s inability to say what he wants, his stuttering and guessing games - but he hasn’t quite. George shifts his hold so that he’s on his side, with a hand propping his head up and the other toying with the hand of the shirt. Ben’s face comes back to bury in his chest.

“You’ve wanted to ask me something all night, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been working up to it,” Ben admits - in a way far too forward for it to be something he’s only begun thinking about tonight. George, graciously, doesn’t ask how long Ben’s been thinking about whatever he’s been thinking about.

“What is it?”

The effect is instantaneous. Ben catches his lower lip between his teeth and his cheeks dust a soft rosy shade. It’s like he hadn’t expected him to ask - which George thinks is absurd. Of course he was going to ask.

“I was thinking,” Ben starts, hands worrying the hem of the shirt, “maybe,” those hands move, touching up the length of his bicep, curling around to his back. If Ben didn’t look so nervous, George would assume he was being intentionally coy.

He trails off, like he’s trying to sort out the words he wants to say, so George urges him forward, “Maybe what, Benjamin?” He should be disgusted by the fatherly edge in his voice. He should be disgusted by how utterly not disgusted he is. “You won’t get a thing until you ask.”

He shivers in his arms and George reflexively holds him closer. “Maybe you could fuck me?”

George could fill a shelf worth of journals with all the things he could say to that. _Of course,_ comes to mind, along with, _Are you sure,_ and _what,_ and _what have I ever done for you to trust me like this,_ and _God, please._ What he says, however, is: “Now?”

The effect occurs as intended, as Ben’s nervous expression shatters into that rough-edged laughter that George wishes he could capsule in a moment to keep forever. “Of course not now,” he huffs between them, thwacking gently at George’s chest, “but like… at some point.”

The humor melts a little into seriousness as Ben continues, hitching a leg up around George’s hip. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, I promise.”

He wants to ask - like he always does - if Ben’s sure. If Ben’s sure he wants this, or does he think George wants this. And, well, George does want it he can’t lie. He can’t lie and say he’s never thought of what it would be like to spread Ben under him, or what he would feel like with those strong legs wrapped around his waist, or just how tight and hot he must be. Jesus, he practically had whole nights dedicated to the thought, the ones where Ben would look up at him and George _knew_ that question was right on the tip of his tongue. He would go home, send him a quick, chaste, _goodnight,_ text then jack it in the shower to the thought.

Perhaps he’s been on this mental tangent too long, because now Ben is looking at him with too-wide eyes. He opens his mouth and George knows he’s half a second from apologizing - so the quickest way to stop that is a kiss.

Which, he happily gives.

If not to give himself another second to think. “Ben,” he whispers, when they pull apart, hand running down the length of his arm. “You only needed to ask, you know.”

There’s a shy smile, another kiss. “So. Yes?”

“Yes, Benjamin. Now hush and lay down, you’ve worn me out enough tonight.”

He’s quick to rearrange himself, organizing limbs around George so that they can fit together comfortably for at least a portion of the night. George strokes his back, gently, until he can feel that soft puff of breath even out against him. He tucks Ben's head under his chin, and falls asleep.

They don’t talk about it in the morning, with Ben making coffee and George prodding at eggs until he’s sure they’re done. Or in the afternoon, with Ben stealing kiss after kiss after kiss in the doorway before finally admitting that yes, he needs to leave and yes his Lyft is going to be here in just a minute - but one more kiss, yeah? He gets his one more, then his two more then he’s out the door and George realizes: they never talked about it again.

It’s probably by design. Ben knows if he can distract George enough, it’ll last all day before he remembers. It’s like being under a fog, or some sort of mesmerizing charm.

But, if he’s still considering it - or even changing his mind, then George gives him the space to do such.

But, when a week passes - it becomes exceedingly clear that Benjamin had no such intention of changing his mind. He’s got George underneath him on the sagging couch in his apartment - and George, for what he’s worth, knows he can only last so long on the lumpy cushions before his back starts to seize more than he’d like. “We can take it back to the bed,” Ben purrs against his throat. He pulls back and George strains against the urge to wrap his arms around him and pull him right back down.

He doesn’t. He lets him get up, lets him sway his hips to the bedroom door.

George would have preferred this to occur at his own apartment, he has to admit, if only for the fact that he knows what he has in arms reach. Not that he thinks Ben is ever the type to be underprepared, but George has his peculiarities. He likes things a certain way and there’s never been an issue with that.

And Ben, with his fingers twining through George’s to pull him into the room, has always seemed to know that. They yield to one another nicely, George thinks, as he waits for Ben’s tentative fingers to slip up under his shirt. Just the tips, just enough to tease. Just enough that George feels like he’s waiting to be scolded for testing these waters.

There are moments like these, with Ben looking so sweetly soft in the late-afternoon glow that creeps in through his drawn curtains, that George is more acutely aware of the age difference between them. It doesn’t always register, he’ll admit. Not when Ben is on a tangent about topics he’s long-since mastered, or when he’s exhausted at nine at night on a Wednesday. Or when he lays his head in George’s lap while they watch a documentary on the Civil War. But sometimes, like this, he feels those twenty years between them arrive so suddenly it knocks him breathless.

Ben is so… young. George could hardly remember what it was like to grapple with firsts like this, to have a low voice crooning in his ear and hands guiding him and being too nervous to actually say a damned thing. For a single, frozen, moment he worries that Ben might feel the same seizing sort of anxiety.

He’s young and pliable and utterly beautiful. George takes those trembling hands between his own and raises them to his lips. It feels like that first night again, as he kisses Ben’s palm and brings him closer.

“It’s okay, sweet thing,” he mutters against him, feeling Ben go a little weak at the pet name and he finds the words he wishes he’d been told, “Go as slow as you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

He tries not to take the relief that floods Ben’s features personally. He lets his hands go, lets them travel back to his chest to touch along it, this time over his shirt. He’s shaking less once he reaches the topmost button, and then the second. With little to do with his hands that doesn’t make it feel like he’s pushing the envelope too much, he lets them rest lightly on Ben’s hips.

Thumbs rubbing little circles along the rise of his hip. Ben takes his sweet time, unbuttoning George’s shirt between gently, relaxed kisses. By the time he’s done and his fingers migrate down to pull his undershirt up from his slacks, George notes he’s not shaking anymore. Or at least, not enough to feel.

It’s a while before they actually get to the bed. George manages to get Ben’s sweater and shirt off, manages to get down to his knees to nuzzle and kiss his stomach and tell him how beautiful he is.

Ben reacts to that with a complete, full-bodied shudder and a low whine. It’s always cute how honestly and fully Ben feels things. His hips jerk when George molds his hand to the outline of his cock through his jeans. His breath hitches when George rises to his feet again and kisses his throat. He groans when he pulls them together, letting him feel the press of his cock. It feels so honest, so right. It’s not like every other desperate fuck, stone-faced and gritted teeth, pretending like they don’t enjoy getting plowed up the ass as much as they are.

George, honestly, is exhausted of that. He’s exhausted with the stiff-lipped scowls, he’s exhausted with the bitten-off groans and the swallowed sounds of pleasure. He’s exhausted with never knowing if he’s hitting deep enough or too far, if he’s pulling them off too roughly or not tight enough.

Ben doesn’t let him wonder, he doesn’t tell him exactly what he wants but he doesn’t dangle the carrot in front of the horse either. If it’s not enough, then Ben’s not letting pure, undiluted, sounds of pleasure rip up from his throat.

George scrapes his teeth up Ben’s neck - and he gasps, and George knows he’s gotten it right. “Bed.” His voice sounds rough and weathered. Ben scrambles to comply - hitting the mattress with a little muffled thump. George falls over him, and fuck Ben is gorgeous. He’s stunning. A flush down his smooth chest making him look so goddamn alive, a gleam in his eye that’s four steps beyond perfect.

He’s red lips and delicate fingers and long limbs and George will never, never get tired of looking at him. But he gets his fill for the moment, settled in between his legs and propped up above him.

Drawn in, like a magnet, George presses their lips together.

When they’re tangled together like this, Ben kisses like he's terrified he won't get another chance. He dives in and gives everything with each press of his lips and George can never find it in himself to hold out for more than a second. There’s something so charming in how deeply he needs, how raw he wants. When his hips raise up to meet George’s, he knows it’s time to back off - to catch his breath between them and rake a hand down the thin chest beneath him.

God, touching him is sweet. Touching him is perfect. The way he moans when he tugs at his nipples, the way he twists so that George gets more of him to feel, the way he shivers and shakes when George drags his hand from his chest down his ribs around to his hip. He wants to touch him as much as he wants to take him. To throw him, down and make him come again and again until he’s twitching pathetically and so thoroughly empty. He wants to see that face twist into pleasure for hours - he wants to flip him over and take him and - his hands tear off Ben’s body like he’s been burned.

He can’t just take. He can’t.

Ben looks up at him with all the confused trust in the world. George could just flip him over, make it five minutes and he’d still think he was the eighth wonder of the world.

He can’t touch him now. He can’t quite trust himself. So he pulls back, just a little, just enough and gestures with his head to Ben’s jeans. “You want to take those off of for me? Show me just how bad you want it, Benjamin. Let me see how hard you are.”

Again, he moves fast - as soon as he’s given the order he kicks himself out of his jeans, then his boxers. It gives George enough time to catch his breath and stabilize himself. Or at least, that’s the goal - but Ben makes even the most frantic undressing look so goddamn tantalizing it’s unfair. His long legs pulling together for a moment before spreading with a touch more confidence, his pretty cock flushed and leaking, his arms covering himself just a little bit. George wants to devour him in by fucking inch.

And he tells him that, as he shifts down the bed and ducks his head down to kiss the inside of his knee. “You’re gorgeous,” he purrs, with another pressed an inch higher, “I could keep you here forever, baby, spread out for me - God, you drive me crazy.”

Ben swears and George bites down on the inside of his thigh. He bucks perfectly with it - hips twisting and cry echoing in the shadow of the room. “Absolutely crazy.”

It’s a little shameless, teasing his way up, breathing hot over his balls and pressing a few quick kisses to the base of his cock. “And you know, it, don’t you?”

He looks up from his position, and he knows it must be a sight. “You know just how to push my buttons, you little minx.” Another lick, this time down as he kisses the space between his sack and his hole. Ben twitches, away, and his thighs move to pull closed again. George pulls back and lets him.

“Shy, baby?” He asks, knowing full well the answer as Ben hides his face in his hands. His playful tone drops, though, with the next question: “Do you not want me to eat your ass out?”

There’s no response. No head-shake or nod. Worry festers, like an open wound, and he drops his hand back down to stroke his trembling flank. He can ruminate on how quickly he stopped later - he can rub at the anxiety that maybe he should’ve done so sooner later as well. “It’s okay if you don’t, Ben, I promise. I just want to make this feel as good as it can - but not at the risk of you being uncomfortable.”

Ben mumbles something into his hands.

“I can’t hear you, Benjamin.”

“I said yes, I want you to… do that.”

“Do what?” He won’t say _use your words,_ it leaves a taste in his mouth that’s far too addictive to risk in a moment like this.

Ben takes a deep breath. “I want you to eat my ass. Please?”

A quick glance down tells him that Ben’s thighs are still sealed together. “Of course, sweet thing, but you’re gonna have to let me if you want me to.”

It takes a few more minutes, a little bit of gentle touching and enough reassurances that yes, Ben does want this, he’s just nervous, self-conscious and _yeah but does George want to eat him out?_ for Ben to let George go back to his soft licks and wet kisses. He gets him more used to this, to a tongue washing over his perineum, before he dared delve any lower.

“Can you lift your legs up?” He asks, and he’s not entirely sure Ben can hear him over the sound of his wrecked moans, at least not until Ben does - gripping his thighs to pull them up a little.

“Like that?”

The movement exposes that lovely hole and George thinks he might have a goddamn heart attack. “Jesus, yes.”  

He drags his thumb over the furled opening, feeling it twitch under his touch. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he rumbles, “look at this tight, pretty little hole. Fuck, Ben, this is what you’ve been keeping from the world? Should be criminal to do that.”

If Ben hears, he’s too busy or focused or blissed out to say anything. Or maybe George just can’t hear over the rushing in his ears, the pounding of anticipation as he leans in and flicks the rim with just the very tip of his tongue. Ben reacts viscerally as George then repeats the motion, but with a long, wet drag of his tongue instead.

He tastes like skin and sweat and the faintest hint of soap and George can’t get enough. The only issue is how much Ben moves. He wriggles around at the new sensation, so much so that getting two laps or sucking kisses off in the same place is damn-near impossible. Like hitting a moving target. He pulls back to arrange them, tugging Ben’s hips higher and gripping them so tight he figures he might leave a mark or two as he dives back in.

Ben hiccups encouragement in the forms of pleads for George to never, ever stop, to keep going - and George yields to those begs perfectly. The first time he pushes his tongue past the twitching muscle, just barely a tip, just barely for a moment, he hears Ben’s voice hitch around a sob. If he were any younger, the sound would make George cream his fucking jeans. As it stands already, he quickly moves a hand down, undoing his fly the best he can without stopping, just to relieve a little pressure.

He hisses against Ben’s hole once he does. Then, with a hand free, gets a lovely idea. He rubs the pad of his index finger down the slick hole, giving him just a little edge of pressure, lets him feel it. “So tight, baby, so tight and so fucking wet,” he coo’s, drinking in the sight.

Just a few minutes of rimming and Ben’s hole is already shiny with spit and red with attention and it looks so goddamn delicious. But he’s got to go slower. Gentler.

That being said, he asks, “Can you come twice for me tonight, baby? It’ll help you last longer once I finally get my big,” a pause to lick where he finger was rubbing, “thick,” a kiss, “cock inside that tight, hot little ass of yours.”

Ben nods his head but it isn’t good enough. “Verbal answers, Ben.”

It’s more a croak, “yes. I can come twice, please, please fuck, just let me come.”

Perfect. He kisses and licks around the working finger until he can increase the pressure just enough to press in the tip of it. And yes, Jesus, just what he’d thought. Less than an inch of a finger and Ben’s hole clenches around it, holding with a vice-like grip.

He works it down to the second join slowly, keeping it up with kisses and licks and flicks of his tongue. He stays like that to watch it, slipping into Ben’s body, watching his hole take him in like it’s what it was meant to do. A couple slow thrusts and he retreats (much to the chagrined whines of the man under him) to replace it with his tongue once more (much to the pleasured moans of said man). Holding him in place with a thick arm pressing against his thighs - George can actually fuck his tongue into him this time. Taste him from the inside out, feel the muscles of his body fluttering and twitching around him.

Focused on his tongue, he takes his spit-slick fingers and wraps them around Ben’s swollen cock instead. It’s only a few strokes before he’s gone - coming ropes across his stomach and George’s hand. “That’s right baby,” he whispers to Ben’s ass, “let it all go for me.”

Once Ben’s rode out his orgam between George’s hand and his tongue, he hears a gentle little sniffle above him. That wound begins to throb again and George is brought right back to the edge of panicking. His clean hand strokes Ben’s legs as he climbs back up his body, meeting red-rimmed eyes.

“Are you okay, baby?” He whispers, taking his hand up to cup his cheek and thumb away a loose tear.

Ben nods and then brings his own hands up to George’s face before answering, “I’m okay. I’m - I promise, I’m so okay, George. I’m - it feels so _good.”_ His laugh is watery and George hates how much his hands are shaking. Both Ben’s and his own. “I promise, George - I just… it was so much, it was so good. I guess I got a little,” another sniffle, “overwhelmed.”

“It’ll probably happen again,” George admits, softly, as he presses his forehead against Ben’s, letting his eyes close as that fear refused to abate. He wants this to be the best thing Ben’s even had - he wants him to never regret it. And thus far, he doesn’t exactly feel like it’s been a bang-up job.

“I figured,” Ben whispers in the seconds he has before he leans up to kiss him. This kiss is shorter than the rest, more shallow and lazy and Ben pulls back with a frown.

George gives him a rare, short, rusted-edge laugh, “I did just eat your ass, dear.”

“Guess I can deal,” he mutters, thin layer of sarcasm lacing through his words before he pulls George in for another, this time deeper, kiss. They stay like this for a while, until it gravitates from idle kissing to wandering hands to Ben’s fingers searching his side desk. He comes back with an unopened bottle of lube.

George quirks his brow at that. Really, with all the rubbing off and dirty talk and thigh-fucking, George was fairly certain they’d only blown through roughly half of Ben’s tube. Then again, he does know about the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

“Thought… just to make sure. I’d… y’know. Replenish my stocks.” He picks at the plastic seal, trying to get a nail in the perforated edges. “I did some uh… research, too. On what was best for, y’know. But then I thought, I like what you use? That’s weird, isn’t it? But it’s… smoother, and I recognized the bottle so - I just don’t want you thinking I’m like,” there’s a pause, among many of the other pauses, so Ben can toss the mangled plastic seal off the edge of the bed.

“I don’t think it’s creepy or weird,” George promises, taking the bottle between his hands. “You know what you like, I wouldn’t want you to bend your preferences to fit mine. Though I am glad to introduce you to something you could enjoy.”

He takes the tube in his hands rolling it between them to get a little more warmth into as Ben shifts and spreads his legs under him. Then closes them a little, then shifts up the bed more. He does it a few more times before caving. “How do you want me?”

“Here.” Once it’s suitable warmed, George lays out on his side, guiding Ben to do the same so that they’re facing each other. He guides a leg up to link into George’s elbow, lifting and spreading him. “If it starts to cramp up, tell me, okay?”

He starts slow again, watching Ben’s face intently as he works a finger into him - a perhaps overly-generous amount of lube coating it. He peppers his face with soft kisses, gentle as he offers the tip of a second finger along the rim of his twitching hole. He stops when he hears Ben’s strained gasp, continues only when he’s settled back against him. “You’re so tight, baby,” he whispers, “so tight and hot - I’ve been dreaming about what it’s going to be like to finally get inside you. Spread you open and let you feel how hard I am for you, feel how deep in you I can get. I want to feel what it’s like to have you come while I’m inside you, Ben, feel you shiver with bliss.”

Ben wriggles and gives a needy little whine as George spreads his fingers. Just a tease of motion. The stretching is methodical. A sort of ceaseless stretch and stop and kiss and stretch. Working Ben looser and more comfortable around two fingers, then three. It takes its time to relax him, to him to a place where both he and George are comfortable progressing - and that place comes a few thrusts after Ben’s twitching around him, toes pointed as George continues to stroke his prostate and ask him if he’s ready.

“Just please fuck me,” he whines, pushing his hips down onto George’s thick fingers once more.

“Needy.” George teases, before carefully sliding his fingers from Ben’s hole and reaching past him for the box of condoms. He tears it open with his cleanest hand and his teeth, fighting against the bit of foil that sticks to his tongue for a few seconds before he rolls it down onto himself and shifts back onto his back - pulling Ben into his lap.

Ben makes a shocked little noise that George should’ve been expecting. Somewhere between a gasp and a squeak and entirely endearing. “I thought you’d have me on my back. Or knees. Or something.” He looks around, crossing his arms over himself and rubbing at his chest.

George shakes his head, letting Ben adjust to sitting in his lap before he runs his hands up and down his thighs. “Maybe in a bit, but start like this. That way you can control how fast and deep you go, okay?” He smooths his hand down his leg again. “It’ll hurt no matter which way we do it.”

“I know.” Ben’s voice is quiet, but firm. He looks determined, and George must admit this angle is extremely attractive. A guiding hand on his hip, and one covering the one that Ben uses to stabilize himself on his chest, he watches Ben’s face twist up in nervous anticipation as he bumps the thick head against his own hole, and he wishes that there was more he could do to fix that. But there’s no making it absolutely painless, no making it less nerve-wracking. At least not now. All he can do is squeeze Ben’s hand under his own, and match Ben’s gasp with his own groan when he presses George’s head into himself.

If he was tight around his tongue and fingers, it was absolutely nothing compared to the hot vice squeezing his cock. He’s tighter than a fist, hotter than lava and just so - fucking - perfect. George can feel his lips move, he can see Ben’s head tilt back in a sort of embarrassed tic, and he knows he’s narrating these thoughts but he can’t stop.

He can’t stop how goddamn good Ben feels around him, how he stops to suck in rattled, pained and pleased breaths when he’s just past the head. It takes ages, ages upon ages of slow-moving and all-encompassing bliss before Ben is settled around him, seated fully in his lap. His cheeks glint in the filtered moonlight and George sweeps him into his arms, letting him hiccup at the shift when his knees come up a little to surround him the best he can. He kisses him breathlessly, feeling him tremble around him as he accustoms himself to the sensation.

If he needs to, George will give him an eternity if it means he gets to stay there, sheathed inside him.

But eventually, Ben’s hips jerk. They twist and roll and the hiccuped little sobs become straining moans of pleasure and his cock hardens back up with just a few strokes of George’s hand. “Fuck, Benjamin,” he purrs into his neck as they rock together, “you feel so good.”

It takes a while before Ben can ride him thoroughly, and even then it’s with short little bursts - just small bounces up and down and George is thankful for that. Too hard and he’d blow his load far too fast and he doesn’t want this to ever end.

Ben works his way up, until George is sure he’s teasing him now. Drawing that tight ass of his all the way up his cock until he’s barely holding onto the head the throwing his head back and moaning out his name as he sinks back down. He does it again and again and again and that fire is roaring in George’s belly.

“C’mon, George,” he huffs above him, body clenching impossibly tight around George’s cock,  “take me.”

It’s enough permission to wrap his arms and legs around him and roll. They come dangerously to the edge of the bed, but Ben is pinned beneath him and George’s lips are on his, swallowing every moan as he rolls his hips into him slowly and gently. Ben locks his ankles around his waist and George is suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact. The legs around his ribs, hands clawing lines of fire down his back, face buried in his throat, tight hole clenching around his cock.

He fucks him slowly, long and deep thrusts driving himself up the fucking wall. It’s not quite enough to get him there, but it’s so fucking good he can’t bear the thought of stopping. But Ben’s legs tighten around him and he whispers, “harder,” into a sloppy kiss. And who is George to say no?

He picks up the pace of his hips, not enough to plow into him, but enough to make the bed squeak a little more insistently beneath them. Ben’s eyes squeeze shut, and the nails on his shoulders bite into the skin and the sight of his face twisting up is the best thing George has ever seen in his life. He wants to capture it forever, bottle it up with every staccato cry and moan and keep it framed forever. He could live off the sounds Ben made while he was being fucked, he could live off the face, the choked cry of George’s name when his hand finally wraps around his drooling cock.

Ben comes around him, shooting off into George’s hand, and George thinks his soul might genuinely tear from his body. He tenses around him, squeezing his cock so hard that he might have gone cross-eyed. The pushes  into him again, and again, fucking Ben through his orgasm until that fire spreads to consume George and sparks bursts behind his eyes. He knows those last through thrusts might have been too rough and too hard, carnal twitches of his hips to milk out the last of his own pleasure into Ben’s twitching, perfect body.

His arms shake and he knows he should push away from him before he just collapses down on Ben’s smaller form - but he won’t pull out yet. Ben’s flushed, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead and long lashes clumped up with tears. He’s beautiful.

He pulls George down into a long, panting, languid kiss. “That was,” he starts, but can’t finish it. But George understands. He kisses him again. And again. And again. He kisses him until he’s too soft to stay inside him anymore, until he needs get up.

Ben tries to muffle his pained little whimper when he does, but George offers a quick, chaste little kiss. Then another. Then another, letting Ben get re-acquainted with the feeling of being empty before he gets up to dispose of the condom.

“Oh fuck, George,” Ben gasps as soon as his back is turned. “Oh my god, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Huh? George drops the rubber in the trash and glances back over his shoulder. He can see the welts already on the little of his back he can see. He twists a little so he can catch a glimpse in the mirror and oh - well. His back is a mess of cross-hatched scratches, from his shoulders down his back and even a fair amount of lines over his ass.

“Don’t be,” he says, already starting back towards the bed.

“You look like you got into it with a fucking bobcat.”

Now that he’d noticed it, it does sting. Especially with the sweat dripping down into a few of the deeper scratches.

“It was arousing.” He assures him, tilting Ben’s face up for a kiss once he’s back in bed. “Very much so. Though I do apologize for the state of your hips and thighs - and how your ass will feel soon after.”

Ben’s brow furrows, and admittedly there’s little to see in the darkness for what will become bruises on his hips and on his inner thighs. But he’ll see soon enough.

They lay together for a few more minutes, Ben’s fingers wandering up and down the plane of George’s ribs, George’s hands stroking through his hair.

“Hey, George?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Good idea.” He takes his hands off of Ben, lets him get up and adjust to the discomfort in his walk. He walks around the bed, then gets halfway to the bathroom before he pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“You coming?”

**Author's Note:**

> I love messages! At [Tumblr](http://williamsburg-wench.tumblr.com/)!


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